


This Knot Between Us

by IrisCandy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (very very brief) mentions of suicide, Character Death, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, I am so sorry, Lydia's POV, You Have Been Warned, depictions of violence, mature themes and violence, scott/lydia bromance, scott/stiles bromance - Freeform, this is really depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCandy/pseuds/IrisCandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so she had no control over it when she labeled Stiles Stilinski as the one constant in her life and the only thing keeping her tied to who she is.<br/>She truly had no control over it when the moment his father died, something collapsed, some tremendous emptiness engulfed her, and it had nothing to do with the banshee inside of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Knot Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> I've been experimenting with style and tenses and all that jazz after reading various different works on here, so this may be a little different from my usual stuff. Bear with me. This may also (may meaning probably will) leave you feeling sad and craving more Stilinski family feels. Enjoy, and good luck on the hiatus!
> 
> Musical inspiration for this fic: Low Roar's album "Low Roar", as well as Olafur Arnalds "For Now I Am Winter" and The Boxer Rebellion's "The Cold Still"

A few months ago, Lydia Martin did not bear her heart on her sleeve as prominently as she did today.

She didn't know, those few months ago, that her world would be flipped before her eyes and that the shell she carried over her skin would soon crumble to nothing.

She would blame Scott McCall. She would blame the supernatural. She would blame Beacon Hills for living up to its name, for being a beacon for all things creepy. She would blame her damned high heels for not offering her the same protection as they had before;  for making her feel only a few inches taller rather than the skyscraper amongst the ramshackle houses.

She would blame every single one of them for weakening her.

Until she recalls a red string around her finger, a pair of brown eyes looking into hers, a soft voice telling her just how _right_ she really was, in every way - and somehow she can feel strong again.

How odd it is, the power and prominence of that single memory.

And so she had no control over it when she labeled Stiles Stilinski as the one constant in her life and the only thing keeping her tied to who she is.

She truly had no control over it when the moment his father died, something collapsed, some tremendous emptiness engulfed her, and it had nothing to do with the banshee inside of her.

_"Don't do that. Dad-"_

_An attempt to speak. A gurgle, a splutter. Red around his lips, drawing a crimson line down his jaw. Desperation in his eyes._

_"Scott called- Scott called the ambulance and it's not even that bad, really-"_

_The Sheriff's hand trembles when he reaches out to his son, and Stiles grabs it no question. Lydia thinks she can feel the grip on her bones._

_"You're fine, Dad. Okay? Tell me- come on, just- just tell me you're fine."_

_Stiles tries for a smile and an encouraging nod, but his eyes are too wide and too glazed with the realization of what's happening, and the smile looks more harrowing than anything else._

_"Scott, damn it, keep pressure on it," Derek's growling, because Scott looks to be filled to the brim with horror as he presses down on the Sheriff's wound, watching the blood so copious it stops the Sheriff speaking, pooling around his knees._

_Lydia's numb at this point, mouth gaping, backing up against the wall and feeling the blinds of the Sheriff's station window crumple under her back. There's a terrifying numbness curling up from her feet, to her abdomen as she looks from the dying man to his pale son._

_She thinks Stiles doesn't realize it when there are tears running down his face._

_She hears sirens in the distance._ Too late, _she thinks_. You're too late.

_Stiles is just starting to say something again when the Sheriff gives a final bone crushing squeeze to his hand and his eyes begin to slide shut, his grip slackening completely._

_Stiles is still holding the limp hand._

_"Dad?" he asks quietly after an excruciating silence fills the room. He then gives a very small, piteous laugh of disbelief that sends a heavy shoot of agony up Lydia's core. "Dad, come on."_

No _, Lydia wants to say._ No, don't do this to him.

_He moves his hand to grip at his dad's collar and give it a little shake, as if he was certain the man was only dozing, but Lydia felt his death like a ton in her heart._

_Slowly, he rocks back, his eyes searching for the spark of life that would never come, and Scott's eyes are blinded by tears as he lets go of the bloody wound and sits back on his knees, staring open mouthed at his best friend. Derek is crouched next to him, and he shuts his eyes and falls back in defeat._

_The three of them look smaller than she'd ever seen them, and the body they're surrounding is simply an image she thinks she'll never believe true._

_Reluctantly, she looks up from the Sheriff to where Stiles kneels - she has that thought, that he's an orphan now, but it's so ridiculous that she shoves it to the back of her mind - and she sees a face emptied of color and wonders how it's possible to look so vulnerable, yet so completely void of all innocence.  His eyes stare - the incredulity in them is the only thing keeping them from looking empty - at his father and his mouth is still moving silently with words the man will never hear._

_This is where she realizes that Stiles is no longer going to be her constant._

***

There's a memorial in the middle of town - a mass of flowers and signs of _rest in peace_ surrounding a portrait of the Sheriff in his ever present beige uniform.

Lydia found herself grateful that the two days after his death, the sky was grey and overcast. A rare sight for California, but entirely appropriate considering the loss that was only beginning to sink in amongst the town. A clear blue sky just wouldn't have seemed right at all.

There are stories of the brutal stabbing of the town's beloved Sheriff all over the news and she silently hopes that Stiles hasn't turned on the TV - not that it would make it any more real than it already felt.

Stiles is living at Scott's now. She hasn't seen him since the paramedics tugged him away from the "crime scene" (they still don't understand what happened, with the footage miraculously disappearing, unable to show them the masked figures or their lethal swords) but she finds she can't deal with the silence anymore and on the third day, she visits him.

Scott answers the door and Lydia's mouth turns dry and bitter, because she can see the way he's aged too quickly and it's taken its toll on his eyes, his demeanor. He wears his face like it's a burden dragging him down, and the color of his skin reflects the bleakness of the day behind her. She can only imagine what he's had to see these past three days, living with his newly orphaned best friend.

Orphan. She still hates that word. She still can't believe she has to associate it with Stiles.

"Hey," she says quietly, almost shyly, standing on his porch in a deep purple sundress.

"Lydia, hi," he says. She notices, briefly, his fingers tightening around the side of the door.

She swallows. "I just- I wanted to see..."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says, moving to let her inside.

The moment the door shuts behind them they're engulfed in a comfortable silence, the ticking of a grandfather clock their only audible company.

"He's uh...he's upstairs," he says, grabbing her hand to lead her up the stairs, but she finds her feet frozen to the floor. Her heart's in her throat and she can't be sure why. 

He looks back when he finds he's tugging at dead weight, and Lydia swallows a painful lump.

"Is he okay?" she asks quietly.

She winces a little, the word _coward_ echoing in her mind because she doesn't think she can go up the stairs. She doesn't think she can look him in the eye.

Scott's brow furrows at her - for a moment, she's amazed that he can still look so utterly concerned and compassionate considering all that he's suffered, until she realizes again that he's Scott McCall and that his entire world is made up of everyone but himself.

She stands with her heart beating frantically, waiting for an answer, until his face softens.

He shakes his head sadly, and though she expected it, her heart sinks. There would be no point in him lying to her - he knows it; she knows it, but she can't help but wish he would have told that little white lie just this once.

"Does he want to see me?"

Her voice is too quiet, but Scott is a presence that makes her heart swell, forces her every thought out of her, and she feels _safe_ with him. She feels like she could die there, fall into his arms and still feel warm.

Scott's lips curl into a small smile. "He always wants to see you."

That forces the tiniest smile from her too, and there's a nostalgia in his words that fills her up every day, to the times when Stiles was that kid who liked her and Lydia was the girl who never gave him a chance; who didn't date _losers_.

But Lydia was never a fan of simplicity. She finds that she much prefers their torturously complicated relationship now to whatever they had - or didn't have - before.

Anyways, she's not really sure exactly what she used to classify as a loser all those endless months ago, but she's certain now that they come more in the shape of Peter Hale than Stiles Stilinski.

Scott jerks his head toward the stairs and tightens his grip on her small hand. "Come on."

***

Lydia's in a cold sweat and her limbs are useless by the time she reaches her bathroom.

She's disoriented. She's got that nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach and that awful taste in her mouth that comes with sleeping fitfully for such a short amount of time.

She heaves over the sink, retches, but nothing comes out. Bracing herself on the white marble counters, her elbows trembling with the effort to hold her up, she looks slowly up at herself in the mirror. She's distracted for a moment by the strawberry blonde ropes of hair dangling in front of her clammy face but there's something behind her, in the mirror, standing _still as death_ in a beige uniform _-_

She whips herself around with a sharp intake of breath that makes her sway, but she sees nothing.

Her bottom lip trembles and she bites on to it, refusing to let this happen.

" _Lydia_ ," she chastises herself in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She feels herself sliding to the green shag rug at her feet, curling into a ball.

"Tell me where he is," she whispers to no one (the faceless voices in her mind). "Show me."

But on the back of her eyelids is only a deep red canvas, the image of crumpled sheets and an empty bed seared on the surface.

Scott's face appears, briefly. It's not panicked. It's simply sad and weary, the entirely human representation of the words _please, no, not again._

He's gone again. Stiles is gone again, and they're not sure where, but they're sure why.

(The dead Sheriff is not a painting on her eyelids, but a vivid, tangible memory forever present at the back of her mind, and she sees it now. She feels it.)

"Come back," she finds herself whispering - it's such a broken whisper that they were hardly words at all - and she tastes salt as tears coat her lips. "Please come back."

She's not talking to Stiles.

She knows Stiles will come back.

She needs his father to come back with him.

***

Stiles wasn't missing for long, as she knew he wouldn't be. No matter how grief stricken he was, he wouldn't disappear on them completely. Not now.

He knows they think he might kill himself.

He comes back that night, shortly after Lydia's breakdown in her bathroom. She gets the text just as her tears are starting to dry.

_SCOTT (2:33AM): Stiles is back. He's ok. Get some sleep Lydia - don't come over._

She clutches at her heart, relief numbing some of the ache there. The soothing feeling reminds her of the first time she had a drink. She'd gotten into one of her worst fights with Jackson, and he'd called her stupid, of all things.

She'd put so much effort into making herself beautiful for him by shunning all that made her beautiful to Stiles. That night, when she saw that it was working; that she made herself so inferior to Jackson to the point that it frustrated him - that's when she broke down into silly, hysterical sobs.  The mask got too heavy, and the cage she put herself in was closing in on her, reminding her of tomorrow and the day after and the months after, when she would continue to hide and pretend under whatever weight she could find.

The stress was unimaginable. It only made it worse knowing that she really didn't need to put herself through it at all, but that she chose to.

She did it to herself, and she couldn't stop.

That night, the bottles of vodka in her basement seemed just a little too intriguing, and when she felt it working, when she felt the stress melting off her back like magic...she drank and she drank and she drank. 

But in times like these, when she worried about her friends lives rather than upholding a facade, the relief of knowing that Stiles was alive was enough to soothe her more than any alcohol ever could.

Exhaustion is what gets her in the end. It beats down the worry that's still infesting her heart, and she only just manages to drag herself off the bathroom floor and back to bed before she drifts into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

It's at the funeral where she finally gets to see him again.

They're burying his father next to his mother, and Lydia thinks that it only opens up another wound in Stiles.

Melissa's got tears pooling in her eyes, and Lydia can't even imagine the burden on the woman's back, because she's taking Stiles in as her own now and she probably doesn't know if she's got the right to fill the role of his parent just yet.

Allison's shaking beside Lydia, because she didn't get there in time to fire a silver arrow through the Oni, and she's surely blaming herself. She shouldn't. None of them should. 

They're all there. Chris, Parrish, Derek, Isaac, friends and colleagues of the Sheriff, people he's helped save. She's only been to two funerals, and she thinks this one has more people than the other two combined.

And then there's Stiles. Scott may as well morph into his shadow for how close he's standing to him.

She's standing across from him, on the other side of the hole in the ground.

He looks thin. He looks pale. She thought that might have been better since the Nogitsune left him, but it may even be worse now and she hopes it's just her painful imagination.

He's got his head cocked to the side slightly so that the tear running down his cheek traces the contour of his nose. He doesn't look sad - there's a deadness to his eyes that suggests his body is acting of its own natural accord, but that his mind is somewhere far away in a much darker place than this.

There's a piece of Lydia deep inside, the part of her suppressed by heavy sadness, that thinks he looks handsome in a suit.

They go through the motions. They say their speeches, they say their goodbyes, they cry and they cry, and she's so sure that Stiles is going to say something today. She's so sure that he can't possibly be speechless, not even now. She's almost half certain he may crack a joke that his father would have laughed at.

But he doesn't. And she wishes she wasn't so heartbroken by it. She wishes she would stop being so ignorant, stop believing that Stiles existed to be strong for them, to keep them together when everything else was falling apart. 

She wishes all of this when she watches the priest ask if John Stilinski's son would like to say a few words and Scott suddenly has Stiles' wrist gently in his hand and is stroking his thumb across the skin there, and Stiles finally comes to for a moment. He realizes, slowly, what the priest is asking him. He licks his lips and lets his mouth fall open for a few seconds, and the world is silent and waiting for him. His eyes flick up to Scott ever so briefly, but then they're dragged back down to the coffin.

He shakes his head.

The priest starts speaking, and Stiles fades again.

There's a thought that runs through her mind then that makes her realize why Stiles couldn't say anything today, because the only words that he probably could have produced would have been something like,

_I'm sorry I dragged you into this._

_I'm sorry you had to die that way._

_I'm sorry I didn't get there in time._

And she doesn't know if it's the banshee in her that makes these words feel so real in her mind, spoken in such a distinct voice, almost like they were sent directly from another's mind straight into hers.

But of course, that was impossible. Just as it was impossible to hear his voice hidden in the white noise of a radio. Just as it was impossible to hear the sounds of an MRI machine from the confines of her car. Just as it was impossible that the taut red string in his bedroom could whisper clues in her ear.

It was impossible.

***

They disperse from the funeral. She sees Scott helping Stiles move, helping him turn away from his father, helping him walk away one final time before the ground sealed above the body.

People are approaching him and Stiles has the good grace to accept their condolences, though she can tell even from afar that he wishes nothing more but to get into the car and drive far away.

But she's got a sudden plummeting feeling in her chest as she watches him walk away, and she finds she can't bear another day without speaking to him. Without him s _eeing_ her, at the very least, because she knows he didn't notice her at the funeral, just as he didn't notice anybody else.

So when he, Scott and Melissa are almost to his Jeep - she wants to smile at the familiarity of the powder blue vehicle amongst the sleek black limos - she catches up to him.

She wants to hesitate before taking his wrist in her hand, but she knows if she does she may never have the guts to speak to him again for a long, long time.

So she grabs it gently from behind, and he turns at the touch. Scott and Melissa turn to look at her as well, but she's got eyes only for Stiles.

His eyebrows raise a little at the sight of her, his eyes become less vacant and more like they used to hold light and life once upon a time. Neither of them speak for a long time. She notices how small she feels, like she has to crane her neck a thousand miles to look up at him, because right now he is her whole world. He is all that matters.

"Lydia," he says finally. Just her name, but it's enough. There's too much in there, in that one name -relief, sadness, constraint, longing - that no amount of words and their useless meanings could make up for.  

"Hey," she says softly, her lips tugging up into the smallest of smiles.

In some distant part of her mind, she notices Melissa and Scott moving away from them, leaving her and Stiles alone on the grass while they huddle next to the Jeep and wait.

He looks at her for a long time. She realizes she hasn't got a clue as to what to say to him.

"Listen I, uh, I'm sorry I didn't text you or anything," Stiles says, licking his lips. "I should've-"

"No, no Stiles," Lydia says quickly, shaking her head. She moves her hand down from his wrist to his soft hand, feeling his fingers curl around her skin. "Stiles, it's fine."

He takes a shaky breath and nods.

"How...How've you been?" she asks, squeezing his hand.

What a ridiculous question. What a foolish human instinct we have, to ask another person how they are when we know full well the dire circumstances they're suffering through.

"Uh," Stiles' voice cracks and he clears his throat. She thinks she can feel sweat building on his palm.  "Uh, fine. Fine, yeah-"

But the conversation's moving too slow for the burning feeling building in her chest, and it propels her forward as she tears her hand from his and wraps them around his neck instead. He stumbles a little, but she tightens her grip, steadying him in every way she can. If she hadn't been in heels, she would have had to stand on the tips of her toes to reach his ear.

She still does, slightly, and he ducks his head a little to accommodate her.

After a second, she feels his arms wrap around her back, and she breathes him in shakily, her cheek brushing the skin of his neck. She can feel his heart pounding. She glides her hands over the soft polyester of his black suit, skims her thumb over the back of his neck.

She can feel his face burying deeper into her hair, feel him breathing heavily, like he's trying to control the emotion threatening to escape him.

She knows he won't break down. Not here.

She squeezes tighter. Her hand slides up to cup the back of his head. She thinks they've been there for hours, and the world's only slowed down around them, keeping everything and everyone still and silent.

It's only when she feels a breeze pull at her hair do they finally pull away from one another, and Lydia almost feels dizzy with the absence.

They're still standing close enough to touch noses when he whispers, "Thanks."

Lydia nods, and she's suddenly aware of the McCalls still waiting by the Jeep, so she steps back from him. She looks him in the eye and tries to convey everything all at once, because she can't manage it all in words.

"You call me. If you need anything," she says quietly.

Stiles looks at her for a long time. She watches his eyes - full of anguish, too heavy - skip side to side across her face. There's something so inhibited about him now and she wonders if he would let it go with her, if they were alone.

She has the futile thought that she would give anything to turn invisible, so she could sneak into the McCall house and stay with him for the night and neither of them would have to say a word.

But alas, being a banshee didn't offer such advantages in the way of powerful supernatural abilities. They did, however, allow her to feel death like an acrid taste in her mouth and an intrusion in her chest before it even happened.

Finally, Stiles nods. He gives her a crooked smile that evidently does not reach his eyes, and then he's leaving her, and she has that strange urge to clutch at her chest again.

***

Stiles beats down the werewolf with his aluminum bat, and he's still hitting long after the creature's face is unrecognizable. Its dark heart stopped beating minutes ago after it had finished trying to kill them, and they had finished killing it, and now it lay perfectly still on the floor of Derek's loft.

He squints his eyes as flecks of blood and gore begin to splatter on his face, dotting his lips, his cheeks, his hair with red.

They're all too disturbingly mesmerized by the passion rippling through his muscles and the twisted rage and despair on his face to do anything but stare for minutes on end. The sound of the bat against the werewolf's head is a repulsive crunching sound, like breaking up ice and slush with a stomp of your foot.

Derek's bristling beside her, but he's not stepping in. He, of all people, knows not to interfere with someone blinded by sorrow unless absolutely necessary and Lydia doesn't believe disfiguring the body of something so horrifically evil can serve as reason to impede.

There's a sound growing in Stiles and Lydia feels it like a vibration through the room.

She wants to throw up.

Allison's tugging at her arm, trying to pull her behind her and obscure her view, but Lydia doesn't need protecting from this. She can already feel his grief inside of her like a blistering flame.

Only when Stiles' arms seem to be getting tired and a growl is rolling out of him with every hit does Scott finally step in.

"Stiles- _Stiles!_ " Scott yells, putting his hands out behind the boy because he can't get close enough to grab him without the risk of being bludgeoned. "Stiles, it's dead!"

Stiles hits it again. Again.

"Bastard," she thinks she hears come out of his mouth with a grunt.

And then it's ripped out of him, like she knew it would be eventually. It took three weeks, but it comes while they're all standing there - Derek, Allison, Scott, Lydia. It's a frenzied scream, the kind that's been locked up for so long that it hurts coming out and it makes you dizzy with the relief and the shock of finally letting it go.

It's so loud and so agonizing that she has the urge to cover her ears.

The _banshee_ has the urge to cover her ears.

Stiles throws the bat down on the body, finally, and doubles over with the force of the wail.

And when it's over, he takes the quickest breath and yells down at the bloodied monster with the same power, "BASTARD!"

With the bat now free from his hands, Scott's behind him in seconds and he's wrapping his arms around him and pulling him back, but Stiles doesn't seem to feel it.

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!? WHY DID YOU- WHY DID YOU-"

They're turning into sobs now and Lydia can't feel her legs.

"Why did you leave me," he weeps, "Why did you..."

Scott's prepared for it when he sinks to the floor, great convulsive gasps being torn from him as he's curled up on his knees and his best friend's behind him, holding him there between his legs. His hand is wrapped around Stiles' chest like he's trying to push pieces of his friend back together.

Allison's got her hand over her mouth, there's tears building quickly in her eyes and Derek's staring with a crease in his brow like he's looking in a mirror and remembering something horrid-

Lydia's only standing there, feeling like the blood's left her body, like she did during the Sheriff's death and now as she watched the aftermath-

Stiles doesn't quiet down anytime soon despite Scott's panic-stricken whispers of _shh, shh._ She thinks it takes about an hour - only it feels like seconds that they're standing there - before the tears on his face are dry and sticky and his breaths are hitching as he turns and leans his face into Scott's chest.

The warmth only returns to Lydia's body as he calms down, and now that she's seen it - now that she's _felt_ it - she knows she can no longer deny the link between her and the boy on the floor.

In the simplest terms, this is where she comes to understand that Stiles is her anchor.

This is where she comes to understand that her anchor is broken, and she's just as unmoored as he is.

***

It's a month after the Sheriff's death when they're all sunk back into a relatively routine life.

Wake up, make sure you're still alive, go to school, make sure you're still alive, go to sleep.

Start over.

They're all too paranoid to do much else. The werewolf they killed a week ago - the one Stiles had beaten to a pulp - was a surprise sprung on them all. Their killing it was purely self defense, and they still couldn't be sure why it had come after them in the first place. Derek had said it was simply a rabid omega sniffing out the first pack it could find.

He told them not to worry, as if that was an easy thing to do.  

Lydia's happy with the familiarity of the classroom, and she gets even happier when she's paired with Stiles on their latest project. It gives her an excuse to talk to him, since they haven't done much of that lately. None of them have, really. No matter how hard Scott tries, their pack still feels flawed and unbalanced with so many of them focused on their own thing, so many of them dealing with their own problems.

Now it's six o'clock on a Monday evening and she's sitting in her room, waiting for Stiles.

 _"Now, it's just a damn economics research project. If I get any of you coming to me with your questions or your complaints, you're doing suicide laps,"_ Coach had said. _"Greenberg, put your hand down - I don't care if you're not on the team, you've still got legs."_

The thought of a research project sends her stomach doing back flips. Nothing's more blissfully distracting then immersing yourself in something completely unrelated to you, especially when you're a banshee living in Beacon Hills.

The soft knock comes on her door just as the clock hits 6:10, and Stiles pushes it open with a fruit tray in his hand. She sits up in her bed.

Lydia's brow furrows at him as she watches him clumsily set it down on her vanity, moving a few products out of the way for it to fit.

He looks up at her and jerks his head toward it. "Courtesy of your mom."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "She thinks I'm on a diet."

Stiles raises an eyebrow as he shuts the door behind him. "Maybe you should think about telling her that you're not on a diet, you're just sort of averse to food now that you've seen what some werewolves eat."

She smiles. Nowadays, dark humor is practically the only humor you can find.

"I'll think about that," Lydia says thoughtfully.

Stiles breathes a small laugh and comes to sit on her bed, setting his bag down at his feet. He doesn't look at her before he's ruffling through it, looking for the appropriate books.

She freezes when she sees him pull out a laptop.

"What's that?" she asks.

Stiles eyebrows raise a little and he pauses, laptop in hand. "Um...computer? You know, I figured we're advanced enough now to use the internet instead of ancient tomes on irrelevant details of the economy. It's quicker."

Lydia licks her lips and looks at him a moment. "What if, maybe...I don't want it to be quicker?"

His slightly surprised gaze on her makes her bite her lip, but she can't help it, because being in the same room as him after so long dulls an ache inside of her and she thinks she may be addicted to the feeling.

He opens his mouth for a long time before anything comes out. "Listen, Lydia, if this is...if this is about- you know, I'm okay, you don't need-"

"It's not about that, Stiles," she says softly. "I just- I just miss being friends, okay? Can we just be friends?"

She doesn't understand why there's pain suddenly so prominent in his eyes, but she can't look at it for long before he's turning away and scratching at his head. "Yeah, yeah, of course we can. We never really stopped, did we?"

His eyes dart up to her, and she's horrified to find that she doesn't know what to say, and she knows what that looks like to Stiles even before the color drains slightly from his face.

He puts his face in his hands. "Oh my God, I've been such an asshole - I've been horrible to you, Lydia, I didn't even call-"

Her reaction's so strong she thinks she may jump right off the bed. Instead, her arm shoots out, grips his knee to tell him to _stop right there_ because she didn't mean to make him feel guilty at all. Her selfishness shone through for the briefest moment because she didn't know how to say _I miss you_ and instead it looked like she meant _you left me alone, and I resent you for it._

His head snaps up to look at her - there's that pain in his eyes again - and she shakes her head, telling him silently that that's not at all what she meant. She moves her hands upwards and she grabs his face gently between her hands.

She kisses him softly, sweetly, because neither of them feels its right to give themselves away to each other completely right now. Not yet. He's still so vulnerable and she's still so far from being right with herself and with her new life.

So it's small. It's quick, like the kiss they shared in the locker room. It fills her with warmth but it doesn't devour her, doesn't make her beg for more when she knows she shouldn't. It's just right, and when they pull away, she can see that reflected back at her.

Stiles looks at her like he usually does, like she's this angel, but this time she's one that he truly knows and understands. There's compassion and gratitude and love in his eyes that she never thought she would see there again, and it's enough to make her own eyes burn.

"I, uh," his voice cracks a little. "I only brought the laptop."

Lydia laughs softly, pressing her forehead against his for a moment before leaning back, cocking her head. "I've got plenty of ancient tomes on irrelevant details of the economy."

Stiles is a work in progress if she's ever seen one. She doesn't expect him to ever be whole again, but it's the first time his smile reaches his eyes in a month, and for now, that's enough for the both of them.

It's enough for them all to become a pack again.


End file.
